The Testimonium (30 page)

Dr. Hubbard had been impatiently rolling his eyes throughout the pastor’s remarks, so Patterson addressed him next. “What are your thoughts on this discovery, Dr. Hubbard?”

“First of all, I find all this premature speculation distasteful and ridiculous. There is very little evidence that a person named Jesus of Nazareth even existed, much less that he was executed as described in the collection of fairy tales known as the Gospels! This may very well be a report to the Emperor about something else entirely.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a stretch, to say that Jesus never lived?” asked the reporter.

“Not at all!” snapped Hubbard. “There is not a single contemporary reference to him! Just a set of stories that were written down fifty to a hundred years later by a group of superstitious peasants. And if he ever did live, I imagine he was just a zealous rabbi who got into trouble for purely political reasons, not some primitive deity who decided for unfathomable reasons to incarnate himself into the body of a carpenter.”

“You sure do seem to waste a lot of hate and anger on someone whom you claim never existed, Dr. Hubbard,” said Wombaker. “But your claim that Jesus never lived is ridiculous in the extreme, almost as inaccurate as the dates you ascribe to the Gospels.”

“What do you mean by that, Pastor Wombaker?” asked Patterson.

“The three synoptic Gospels, Matthew, Mark, and Luke, were written only thirty or forty years after the time Jesus lived, by eyewitnesses of his life in Matthew’s case, and that of John’s gospel, even though it was written a while later. Some of Paul’s letters date a decade earlier, and Galatians dates within fifteen years of the Crucifixion. Roman historians and the Jewish writer Josephus all treat Jesus as a real flesh-and-blood person. And as far as Dr. Hubbard’s editorial comments go, St. Paul said it best: ‘The preaching of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing.’ Whatever is in this scroll, God’s church is not the least bit afraid to face it.”

The atheist’s face darkened. “Probably because they planted it there in the first place!” he snapped.

Patterson raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

“Get real,” said Hubbard. “They discover this supposedly undisturbed chamber on Easter Sunday, and the first thing they do is call in a representative from the Vatican and the son of an Evangelical preacher from the American South? The whole thing stinks so badly I can smell it here in New York!”

Josh looked over at Isabella. “And so it begins,” he said.

“Good thing we did our field work properly,” she replied.

* * *

On another television set, on the isle of Capri, Ali bin-Hassan watched the coverage of the press conference as broadcast on the Arabic network, Al-Jizyah. The anchor stated: “Archeologists claim to have found several artifacts dating to the time of the early Roman Empire, including a scroll that may to contain the report Pontius Pilate filed to the Emperor Tiberius about the so-called crucifixion of the Prophet Isa, peace be upon him. Christian infidels believe that Isa was crucified and then rose again on the third day to prove that he was the Son of the Most High. The Religion of Truth teaches that he was neither crucified nor killed, but divinely sheltered from harm by Allah and then caught up to the heavens, while the disciple who betrayed him was killed in his place. Islamic scholars hope that Pilate’s report will chronicle the true narrative, but many already fear that this is just another clever hoax to deceive the faithful.”

Hassan snapped off the TV and stepped outside. All day long, nothing but reports and speculation about the mysterious scroll and its alleged contents—he must do something! He made his way down the trail behind his house that led to the beach. The half-moon was low in the sky, and he could see nothing but empty sand in every direction. The crash of the surf would foil any potential eavesdropping. He pulled a disposable cell phone from his pocket. The cell phone had been delivered earlier that year, and it was programmed with only one number. That number would ring in a vacant apartment in Cairo, where a remote router would relay it to a cell phone belonging to one of the most wanted men in the world—al Qaeda’s current director of operations, Ibrahim Abbasside. The Ethiopian terrorist had masterminded a number of successful plots, and others that had been foiled by the infidels, but he had never been captured. In fact, the cursed American Crusaders had not even been able to come up with a photograph of him yet! Hassan had debated all day on whether or not to call the number, but now his mind was made up. He turned on the phone and brought up the contact list, and pressed “Call” on the only number it displayed.

The phone in Cairo rang twice, and he hung up. Two rings was the prearranged signal. Seconds later, his phone buzzed.

“Allah is merciful!” he answered.

“Indeed he is,” came the reply. “Hassan, it is good to speak to you again. I know you must have called for a reason. What is it?”

“This so-called archeological discovery,” he said. “It could pose a great victory for the infidel Christians.”

“Fortunate that it was found in your own back yard, then,” said the terror mastermind. “It is a shame that you were not able to act more quickly.”

“By the time I became aware of it, the artifacts were already being moved to Naples,” said Hassan. “But I am familiar with the area where they are being studied. A properly placed ‘special delivery’ would destroy the lab, the scrolls, and the infidels who found them.”

“You know that ‘The Prophet’s Hammer’ has been delayed by the improved security at Target Alpha,” said Abbasside. That was the code name for a truck bomb intended to destroy St. Peter’s Basilica. “The device is ready, sitting in a warehouse just south of Rome. I could have drivers deliver it to Naples. But it would require someone familiar with the area to place the package where it needs to be delivered.”

“You mean—” said Hassan.

“Paradise will await you, my brother,” replied the Ethiopian.

Hassan could barely contain his happiness. That he might finally earn Islam’s highest honor, death by jihad! The thought of the joys of paradise overwhelmed him. “
Allahu Akbar!
” he exclaimed.

“He is great indeed,” said Abbasside. “A new phone will be delivered in two days. It will ring sometime Thursday evening, giving you specific instructions as to where the package will be waiting. Delivering the package will be your responsibility—it must be done at a time when the so-called Pilate report is there beyond all doubt, and you must get close enough to the walls of the lab to ensure their utter destruction. Is that clear?”

“Yes, imam!” exclaimed Abbas. The line went dead immediately thereafter. The entire conversation had taken less than three minutes. As he walked up the trail to his home near the mosque, he could hardly contain his joy. No more mouthing platitudes that went against every fiber of his being! No more being the infidels’ pet imam! Muhammad al Medina, the kindly, benevolent imam of the Capri mosque, had always been a fiction. In less than a week, the whole world would realize how great a work of fiction he had been.

That Saturday, Caesar, was one of the quietest days during my entire tenure here in Judea. The Jewish leaders, having gotten their way, were quiescent the whole time, absorbed in their Passover rituals. The Galilean’s followers were in hiding, no doubt in shock and grief at his death. After that incredibly long and difficult Friday, I began to feel I could breathe again.

But Sunday morning, shortly before the noontide meal, Longinus came to see me. He saluted crisply, but his countenance was grim. Not just grim, either. It was as white as my toga. He was afraid.

“He’s gone,” he said.

“Who is gone?” I asked.

“That bloody Galilean! Jesus of Nazareth! His tomb is empty, his shroud an empty shell, and his body is missing!”

Rage filled me. “How could this happen?” I demanded.

“My three legionaries were camped some distance away,” he said. “But there were twenty of those Jewish Temple guards watching the tomb, and the stone across the entrance would have taken a dozen men to move! They had even sealed it with a big wax seal, proclaiming death to any who violated the tomb.”

“Then what happened?” I demanded.

“Just before dawn, they heard the ground shake, and the Jewish temple guards shrieking. My two boys started towards the tomb, and saw the Jews lying on the grass as if dead. The huge stone was moved several yards away from the entrance. Decius Carmella approached the opening, and then a blinding flash of light knocked both of them out cold. When they woke up, the Jews had fled, and there was a group of women at the tomb wondering what had happened. That is when they came and reported to me!”

Josh rose early the next morning, swam ten laps in the pool, then showered and got dressed. He was just finishing his continental breakfast when Isabella walked into the hotel’s restaurant looking for him. He waved her over with a bit of trepidation. They had not really been alone together since he had declined her invitation Sunday night, and he was not sure how she felt about him at this point. But she was all smiles as she slid into the booth across from him.

“You are an early riser,” she said. “That’s commendable; it leaves much more time to get things done.”

Josh smiled. “I never could stand to waste daylight,” he said, “even as a teenager. So many of my friends would sleep till noon on Saturday, while I would be up as soon as it got light, fishing or catching snakes or hunting arrowheads! Of course, while they were partying till three in the morning, I was generally in bed by ten every night.”

Isabella looked at him sadly. “You were something of a Boy Scout, weren’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know that I would go that far,” said Josh. “I loved a good prank as much as anyone, and did my share of juvenile adolescent stupidity . . . but I avoided things that I thought of as ‘the big sins.’ I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, never was interested in drugs, and was frankly scared to death of girls.”

“Somehow I don’t find that hard to believe,” she said with a look so frank it scared him.

“Listen, Isabella, about the other night—” he said.

“I was too forward,” she said curtly. “I have been so alone for so long I just couldn’t stand it anymore.”

“If I could have my way, you would never be alone again!” he said.

“So what is keeping you from it?” she asked. “Having your way, I mean?”

“There are some obstacles,” he said, blushing. “But none of them are insurmountable. Obviously, we come from different countries, have separate careers, and speak different native languages.”

“Joshua!” she said. “You are ducking the subject. I like you a great deal. Despite my better instincts, I think I may be actually falling in love with you. The least you can do is be honest with me. What is it about the thought of sleeping with me that terrifies you so much?”

“I guess ‘fear of the unknown’ is too simple an answer, huh?” he asked ruefully. “I’ll try to explain as best I can. I believe, with all my heart, that the Bible lays out a divine plan for human relationships as well as with our relationship with God. I don’t want to live like so many of my friends, hopping from partner to partner, looking for satisfaction and never finding it, promising to love and cherish, and then five years later, cheating, lying, and running out. I want to have ONE sexual relationship—but I want it to last the rest of my life. To me, that means I pick the right person, and then WAIT until my ring is on her finger and my last name takes the place of hers before I take her home with me forever. I have been looking my whole life for that person—and for the first time ever, I really think that I may have found her. My heart tries to leap out of my chest every time I look at you! And it’s not just physical attraction—although there is plenty of that, trust me. But there is more. I want to make you laugh. I want to hold you when you cry. I want to see you every moment of every day. And I want to keep you from being hurt ever again.”

There was so much sincerity, so much longing, in his voice that Isabella was moved despite herself. She had resolved, after his refusal of her proposition, to back off and begin disentangling herself from this handsome but confusing man. That resolve had come with difficulty, after a lot of soul searching and a half a gallon of chocolate ice cream. She had even called her closest female cousin to commiserate with her for an hour that night. But now his deep brown eyes, his tanned handsome face, and above all, the simple love that radiated from him melted that resolve. She opened her mouth and spoke.

“Then why not?” she said. “There is something else—or I think you would have asked me already.”

He gave a deep sigh. “As much as I love you, Isabella, I love my God more. And I am afraid to share my life with a person who does not share that love. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a person that I cannot count on spending eternity with. I want you to love Jesus as much as I do, and then I can love you without reservation or fear. But if you are an unbeliever—a skeptic—I am afraid to give my heart to you. Because if you never come to share my faith, that would mean saying goodbye to you forever when I die. And I don’t think I could stand that. And so I hold back—because I don’t know what you believe. It is the one thing we have never had a chance to talk about, and I have been waiting—and dreading—the chance to do so!”

“What do I believe?” Isabella asked. She had not really thought about God in years. She had gone to mass often as a young girl, and had entertained a simple belief in a benevolent Creator through her teen years. She was not sure what she thought about Jesus of Nazareth. She knew he had been a real person, but the Son of God? For her, the twisted marble figure hanging on a cross above the altar was an abstraction, a symbol of a powerful philosophy. A historical figure that had been amplified into something far more than he ever meant to be. Now she was the chief investigator in an excavation which could, potentially, establish which version of Jesus was real—the radical rabbi who challenged the authority of Rome and the priests, the misunderstood mystic, or the dynamic Son of God portrayed in the Gospels? Her scientific training, her skeptical nature, and her deep-seated anger at God over the loss of her husband years before, all argued against the kind of Jesus that Josh seemed to accept without hesitation. And yet, deep down, there was a part of her that had never left the cathedral where she had knelt as a child. That part longed for something greater than herself, a God that could love her and be loved in return, a God she could cast her cares on without reservation. Yet she doubted the existence of such a being.